Camellia
by YL
Summary: -Ichigo x Rukia- Red is for love. White is for waiting. Yellow is for longing. This is the language of the camellia.
1. I

**Disclaimer:** Bleach and all volume poems are created by Kubo Tite.

Translations into English are done by me. Any sort of discrepancies from the official English manga is not intentional.

Pls enjoy.

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**I**

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Red is for love.

_White is for waiting._

_Yellow is for longing._

_This is the language of the camellia._

_x . x . x_

His hood was over his head as he kept his eyes closed. But he was not asleep. He was awake, listening to the announcer's voice over the loud chattering of the high school students standing just a couple of feet away from him. Their voices held cadences of excitement, as they talked about the clothes they were going to wear, the way they were going to style their hair, the colors they were going to paint their nails and the brands of makeup they were going to use. They would don themselves with the colors of emerald, of opal, of topaz, of sapphire. They whispered something inaudible to each other and then burst into giggles, laughter that were distinctly young. Listening to their conversations with detached curiosity, he heard enough to know that they were going out on a group date, meeting some third-years from the basketball team.

They do not know the world beyond theirs. Their lives were filled with boring classes, school vacations, hot dates and vibrant fashion. They looked at the world through rose-colored lens, unworried about what lies ahead. What lies ahead seemed an idea too distant for them to consider.

_People possess hope, because their eyes are unable to see death._

He heard his stop being announced and he stood up. He then saw a spirit, standing beside one of the laughing girls. The spirit's features were gentle and kind, just like the girl he was standing beside. He wore a black and white ring around his ring finger, and so did the girl. The girl was smiling, unaware of that tender presence that stood beside her, protectively.

Did those other girls knew, how one's heart would find incapable of mending after it was broken? Did that girl know, that even in his death, he still loved her?

Yes, she must know. Because she was still smiling, with that ring around her finger and even with those sad eyes, she was still smiling. She understood that she was loved.

His hood fell and he heard the girls mention something about his hair as he got off the train, but he was not the least bothered. As his foot landed on the platform, he simply turned back and smiled, which caused all the girls to quickly turn their heads away from him like they were all caught red-handed doing something ethically incorrect. But his smile was directed at the ghost, who at this moment was also looking at him. And surprisingly, he returned the gesture unflustered.

_People possess hope, even when they have seen death. _

It had to be true, because even in fear, he was still hoping.

_x . x . x_

Normally, people would have taken the bus, but growing up, he was used to walking. Even now, living in Minato, surrounded with an extensive transportation system, he still walked everywhere. He walked with the rapidness he was used to, working every inch of his muscles that had remained lean and toned even when he found little time to work out in the gym. He figured it was all the walking that kept his body fit, and so he kept it up.

The streets where already flooded orange with light from the streetlamps when he arrived. A small amount of sweat had broken and he removed his jacket that he had been wearing to fend off the drizzle.

"You're late."

"I know," Ichigo stated flatly as he proceeded to wash the tombstone and he placed his own flowers beside those that the rest of his family had brought. He clapped his hands in brief prayer.

A thin stream of smoke rose and dissipated into the endless night sky. "Have you gotten fat?"

Ichigo's face contorted into a look of disbelief.

Isshin laughed at his expression and he offered his lit cigarette to Ichigo.

"I'm still underage, old man." Ichigo took the lit cigarette nevertheless and took a drag. He seldom smoked, but when he was alone in his apartment, he sometimes did. Nighttimes were the worst when one was alone.

"So you're not as stiff-necked as I thought you'll be," his father chuckled. "Look Masaki, what a bad boy Ichigo has become!"

"You offered!" Ichigo retorted back irritably. He stuffed the cigarette back into his father's fingers. "And you knew anyway. That's why you offered."

Isshin backslapped his son in the chest, a lot harder than expected, causing Ichigo to cringe from the impact. "Ooh, so you've grown smarter! You realize that your father actually knows EVERYTHING!"

"Yuzu and Karin?"

"I sent them to get some dinner and to wait for me at the bus stop." There was a pregnant pause and Ichigo was anticipating as his eyes darted away guiltily. "Are you coming home today?"

Ichigo stuck his hand deep into his pockets and did not answer. He knew he was not going to escape his father's question just by pretending he had not heard it, but he did so anyway. He had not gone home last year.

"They'll be getting dinner for four."

Ichigo bent to pick up his jacket which he had folded and placed on the curb.

"She came here this year too."

He knew, but he said nothing as he patted the dirt away from his clothes.

"Are you happy?" Isshin stubbed out his cigarette, though he had barely finished half of it. "You haven't really been happy since she left two years ago."

"Two? It has been eleven years. You should at least know how long your own wife had died." Ichigo played the fool.

Isshin kicked Ichigo at the knee from behind, causing his leg to buckle and eliciting laughter of victory from his father. He walked ahead quickly, his arms swinging as exaggeratedly as the width of his strides. "Last one to the bus will run home using handstands!"

He knew he had not escaped anything by his pretence, but pretence ran deep in the family. They were unhappy, that much was obvious; this day was not a happy day for any of them. But they never tried to talk about it. They laughed and argued, pretending to have left the past behind. The only one who used to cry no longer did. Perhaps so many years after, tears no longer brought any meaning to the indelible past. He could never guess, the precise moment when everyone stopped crying, when they learnt to keep the sadness hidden far, far away, in a place where no one needed to see.

_We should not allow tears to fall, for tears would show that we have been defeated by the heart. And it is just proof, that our hearts are things beyond our control._

Ichigo could not remember the last time he cried. Was it the night when he had failed to defeat Grand Fisher? It probably was. It was the night when he stopped crying and learnt to carry the weight of his soul in the blade of his sword. It was when he finally believed that the ability to change destiny would come in the swing of the sword that he held firmly in his hands.

So he no longer cried.

And he realized, what was more fearful than crying, was losing the capability to cry. That year after year, he would stand here with dry eyes, while he continued to break down year after year, in an unseen world, within himself. Because the grief would never go away, because he understood that he would continue to blame himself no matter the number of years that should go by. He could find no salvation.

And then he remembered. The last time he cried, and the moment he forgot how to cry, was the day she went away. Two years ago.

_Yes, we are defeated by the heart, and always will be. Because in the end, our hearts are things that are simply beyond our control. _

He pulled the hood over his head as it was beginning to drizzle again and he hurried along on his way to catch the train back to Minato.

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**- YL -**

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	2. II

Thank you for all your kind comments for my first chapter. Here's the second.

Please Enjoy.

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**II**

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"Inoue-san?"

She clasped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to suppress her startled yelp. She had expected him to already be inside his house.

"My apologies for frightening you," he bowed slightly.

She shook her head vigorously. She clutched her bag nervously and pondered anxiously on the excuses she should give for appearing unannounced at the door of his apartment. "I was in Shinjuku. And it's only a few minutes from here. And I was free. And you live here. And I hadn't seen you for so long. And so I thought…"

"You're usually in Shinjuku, Inoue-san," he commented, cutting off her fragmented, nervous speech. He dug his fingers into his pocket to fish out his key. He glanced at her briefly as he unlocked his door, with an expression that was faintly curious, but there was no judgment.

And she knew he would not judge her. He never did. "Of course, I live in the university's dormitory. You know that. Ha…" She laughed her usual silly laugh, gently knocking a fist to her head. But her laughter sounded false even to herself and she was certain she would not fool him. She looked down, knowing that it was despicable that she had even considered taking advantage of one's kindness. "It's really good to see you again, but I guess I have to…"

"Since you are already here, it would be ill-mannered of me to not invite you in." He held his door open in obvious proposition. Even in his casual off-white pullover and a pair of khaki pants, he never failed to exude the strange gallantry in his poise and gesture. And she was ashamed to admit that she had come seeking this gallantry that she was certain he would offer her.

Her eyes wandered away from his face, for there was guilt in the knowledge that his concerns stemmed from more than just friendship alone, and that she would just be using him if she was to accept it. She could not forgive herself for her willful behavior, that she should run like a child to the nearest person whom she knew would hold her and comfort her. "I shouldn't bother you. I should get going…"

He cupped his hand around her elbow, stopping her with a grasp that was both firm and gentle. "Orihime."

Her name was spoken like the lilt of a poignant love song, warm and intense. How dearly she had wanted to hear her name spoken in such manner from another man, and how she had waited in vain. The wait had drained her and this man's voice came to her like fire in the freezing snow.

It was beginning to rain. The cacophony of the heavy splatter of rain and the gurgling of the drains were deafening, and they were threatened to drown her sanity as she struggled with the reality of her weakness. The rain. If the rain could unite the earth and the sky, if the rain could connect with someone's heart… then she could never become the rain.

And at last something in her broke and the tears came. "Ishida-kun…"

He did not question her. Instead, he took her into his apartment and sat her down. He kneeled before her quietly and waited. And she wept like she had never allowed herself to weep before, her fists pressed against her face, trembling.

And all the while, Ishida had not spoken a single word. He simply waited in pensive silence. Just like he always did.

"I knew, right from the beginning, I would not be able to compare to her."

He nodded, urging her to continue.

"I knew, Ishida-kun, I knew!" She was angry. For the first time, she realized she was angry. It was not just envy, or jealousy, or frustration. It was anger of her ineptitude and naiveté. "I knew! Yet I thought I'll be okay. I thought I'll be fine. I thought I can settle for number two. But I can't. I can't settle for just being number two. I'm not even number two! He has no space for a number two. He has no space... I loved him first. I loved him first. I loved him first…" The words died upon her choked voice.

And she knew, that more than envy, jealousy, frustration and anger, it was the deep regrets buried within her that was beginning to destroy her. The regret that she had not been the one who shaped the world of the one she loved. The regret that she could not be the one he loved first, despite him being her first love. The regret that perhaps she had told him she loved him too late. And the regret that despite her ability to turn back time, she could not undo the wars, the battles and the death of his mother. She had tried so hard, but the powers that she had long left behind had changed so little.

She walked out from the past, but she could not save him. It had taken her so much courage to offer her hand, but he had not taken it. She could not lead him out of a past he had entrapped himself in.

She grabbed the corner of Ishida's shirt, her hand shaking. "I'm so tired of trying. I don't want to be spiteful for all the things I cannot do for him."

Ishida reached out and pulled her into his arms. She remembered his warm, tender touch on her hand, on the first snow of December last year. Their old class from Karakura High School had organized a year-end party and she had been waiting at the train station, expecting Ichigo to be home for the event. When the snow began to fall, she was elated, believing that she would be able to spend the first snowfall with the man she was in love with. She could recall so clearly. Oh, how her mind had danced with extravagant fantasies!

But he had not arrived.

Instead, Ishida was the one who came and saw her at the station, looking like an abandoned animal, snow collecting on her coat and hair and shoes. The tears that she had not wiped away long dried on her face. And in her hands, she still held the phone that delivered the disappointing news.

She must have looked awful, but he had said nothing. He simply removed his gloves and wrapped his warm hands around her frozen ones. He blew his warm breath upon them and then pulled his own gloves over her warmed hands. And silently, he pressed a handkerchief into one of her hands, held the other with his gloveless hand, and allowed her to cry freely as he took her to the gathering.

She remembered with such clarity, that hand which held hers, that breath upon her frozen skin; they were her refuge. And today, she had come here wanting that kindness that he had once given her though she knew she was undeserving of it. She had given him nothing in return.

For years he had stood at the sidelines, watching her from afar, always ready to grab her whenever she fell. And for years, she had not seen him, for her sight was always following the trail of another man.

"You are very brave, Orihime," he stroked her hair. "You are very, very brave."

She did not need to look to see that reflected in those dark eyes behind the glasses was her, Inoue Orihime, only her and nobody else.

His love clung to her skin like the warmth of the morning sun she had forgotten. His voice carried the tunes of a love song she had needed to hear.

And she spent that night, curled up in the arms of the man whom she knew, truly loved her.

_x . x . x_

This would be the last time she would unlock the door into this neat little apartment. The last time she would watch this man sit at the desk, his head bent over his anatomy books as he marked out the important things he wished to remember. The last time she would breathe the distinct scent of mandarin that belonged to him. It would be the last time.

"Kurosaki-kun," she called out his name softly, still standing at the doorway with her shoes on.

She watched him swivel his chair to face her, the pen still in his right hand and a quizzical look on his face. He seemed suddenly unaccustomed to her calling his last name. "Inoue?" He said carefully.

'Inoue'. Quite suddenly, she realized she was rankled by the fact that through all the years they had known each other, he never changed the way he called her. It was always 'Inoue'. Never 'Orihime'. Her detest of the impregnable fortress that he had placed between them was a festering wound that had remained unattended for far too long. Tatsuki was Tatsuki, Sado was Chad, Ishida had even become Uryuu! Yet, she was still 'Inoue'.

Inoue, Inoue, Inoue.

It was like they were strangers pretending to be lovers. Perhaps that was exactly what it was. A make-belief relationship.

"Kurosaki-kun," she repeated herself, the name leaving a sense of determination in her. Because she could remember the delight of the first time she had called him solely by his first name. And she could also remember how that delight withered with each passing day that he would look at her with distant eyes, till gradually the feel of his name rolling off her tongue brought forth little contentment. "I'm sorry."

"Huh?"

She smiled. That undecorated manner in which he spoke, that little crease between his defined brows and that little elegiac tilt of his head would never truly change, though their forms had subdued with age. She wanted to end everything before she could forget her reasons for loving him, before that slow burn of resentment within her set everything ablaze in hatred. "I'm sorry, Kurosaki-kun." Her fists tightened around her skirt, with much anxiety but without uncertainty. "I can't… not like this anymore."

Without speaking, he stared at her a long while, till finally, his facial features softened. And at that moment, Inoue knew she need not say more to make him understand. Perhaps, he had been anticipating the day when this would happen. He had always been more astute than what most people gave him credit for.

And then, in an all too familiar manner, she could see his thoughts drifting away for a second. She wondered who he was thinking of, though the answer seemed too painfully obvious.

She knew, when he loved, the one he loved was like those Shakespearean plays that he preserved with utmost care. He would take the books out time after time and find incapable of putting them down as he relished in the intricacies of those tales that were created from the depths of a genius' mind. And it was not an easy fact to acknowledge, that their relationship was not a Shakespearean play. It was simply another one of those numerous prescribed medical textbooks that lined his shelves, one that he read indifferently out of obligation, and one that he could easily put away to rest his eyes.

He never loved her.

But Kurosaki had a gentle soul, too gentle to hurt her by telling her that whatever they had between them had to end. He never realized how much more he was hurting her and hurting himself by his reticence. And that she always saw the exhaustion and sadness in his face, and it told her he would never be able to love her no matter how he tried. So she had to say it, before his kindness destroyed them both.

"Kurosaki-kun." She was beginning to forget how his first name sounded out of her, but she knew it was all right for her to forget. She wanted to forget. Those might have been happier times, when he was still just 'Kurosaki-kun' to her. She placed her copy of his room key onto the tatami floor and smiled wanly at his apologetic face. "Sayonara."

And she closed the door, her body shuddering with stifled sobs that she hoped he could not hear. The snow globe that encased her fantasy world had finally shattered and the broken glass glinted like precious diamonds before they cut into her skin and stained her world crimson.

But she knew that one day, she would be ready to truly leave the pieces of that fantasy world behind. One day, with all her heart and soul, she would be able to give herself a second chance, and walk through the real door of happiness that had been wide open and waiting for her all these years.

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**- YL -**

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	3. III

I tell myself to update faster. Never seems to work.

So I thank you for all your kind support. It reminds me that my work is read.

So please enjoy.

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**III**

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Sometimes, he dreamed of her.

He dreamed of how the palm of her hands, her fingers would trace the length of his body, and hold him, and mold him with heat of her flesh that radiated like a flame against his own. He dreamed of her lips warm upon his lips, his cheeks, his eyes. She was a scorching fire that touched every inch of his being, searing the proof of her passion into his skin that pulsed with an agonizing, insatiable desire. Such nights were entanglements of love, longing and hunger, and of countless memories that became a conflagration he embraced with open arms, as he took in the deep fiery pain that he knew would always stay with him.

His eyes opened and he was greeted by the colors of dawn, a color that sprayed his whole room a deep shade of indigo. He reached out for his digital alarm clock.

06:12

He had plenty of time before his class, which would start at ten, but he got up anyway. He untangled himself carefully away from the warmth of the girl who lay cuddled close to him, with unrequited familiarity. She seemed slightly disrupted, but remained asleep.

He washed, shaved and changed. He turned on his computer, went through his lab reports and prepared for the classes he had that day. As he clicked the "Print" button and listened to the rhythmic drone of his laser printer against the soft cadences of the radio news, he was surprised at times how all those people who had stayed over could always just sleep through all these noise. He sometimes believed that they were not asleep, just pretending to be asleep till the moment to wake came. Now that he thought about it, it was not that amazing a feat. He himself had slept through a lot things. He had slept through battles, through wars, through nightmares, through pain, through grief. So everyone pretended to sleep at times, just drifting in and out of the state of consciousness. He knew that.

Slightly after seven, he was already done with whatever needed to be done, so he made himself a mug of sugarless black coffee and sat down on the ground. His back was against the closet doors and he was only in his jeans, which still proved to be uncomfortable as it clung to his skin in this warm, humid morning. Forecasts predicted rain in the late afternoon.

He reached for the remote and turned off the radio.

June 17th. He knew he was going to leave Minato after his class at five, reach the burial grounds at around six-thirty to seven, and then arrive back to this apartment again before eleven. Just like last year. And the year before last. And the year before last. Four years since he moved away, the routine had not changed. And he did not want it to change.

He raised his coffee mug and felt the warm bitter liquid slide down his throat. He never quite acquired a taste for coffee. Or cigarettes. But he still made a cup without sugar and milk every morning, and kept a packet in his drawer at all times.

The funny things that people did, even when it brought them so little pleasure.

He rested a hand over his lower torso, his thumb brushing over that old scar that would never fully disappear. The scars that he wore like an insignia of his pride and his shame. The scars that he kept for her.

Lingering signs of either mental or physical damage; that was what scars were.

He scoffed.

Lingering signs of damage. He was damaged goods.

The breeze had died within the curtains and the room was already basked in a nondescript shade of an earthy gold. He kept his eyes fixed on the sleeping figure on his futon and he listened to her slow, steady breath as she slept. Her hair was ebony and long, spread like the waves of the midnight sea upon the whiteness of his bedspread. Her complexion was pale but almost iridescent in the glow of the morning light and its texture was smooth like that of a child's. Her eyes were closed, but he remembered they were dark, infinitely dark like the depths of those wishing wells which no one could really tell whether their prayers had been heard. The eyes bothered him a little.

Her name escaped him momentarily.

Kumiko. Yes, that was her name. Kumiko. A good, old-fashion name. Kumiko.

He could not remember if she had told him her last name.

Wanting a smoke, he shook out a stick from the cigarette pack. He fiddled the stick between his fingers and placed it between his lips, slightly enjoying the familiarity of the smell of dried tobacco. The scent of tobacco reminded of days long ago, where his parents would stand and watch him from a distance, his father with a lit cigarette in his hand. His father never smoked near the children, but he remembered how they would return to him, both of them smelling faintly of smoke laced with a sweet scent of cherry.

His father still smoked the same brand and now, so did him.

He stared at the sleeping countenance and then decided to return the stick back into its box, for he was suddenly afraid that he would wake her and break the dream he had realized too late that he had begun to weave. He could see her in Kumiko's heart-shaped face, in the hair that was the color and shine of dark onyxes, and in the porcelain whiteness of a skin that never tanned. With her eyes closed, he could imagine that her irises were a deep indigo, large, fierce and demanding. He could imagine it all so vividly in his head, so clearly he could almost imagine he was holding her in his arms right now.

His fingers circled that old scar again. In the emptiness of this room, where the noises of the morning traffic was a distant susurration, he would start remembering her. Remembering every part of her, remembering how she looked, how she spoke, how she walked. And how she left and never came back.

What had it all meant then? That together they had fought so valiantly, knowing that every breath they took may be their last while miraculously surviving through it all. Why did she abandon her world to invade into his, only to return to her origins in the end? Had she held onto him as dearly as he had held onto her, or was he the only one childish enough to believe that he had blurred the lines of life and death only to meet her?

He had believed in such beautiful lies, believed in the intricate web of fantasy that he had created and had trapped himself in that illusion. Truly, he had held onto her so dearly, believing in the eternity that lay straight ahead of them with no hurdles.

Benjamin Disraeli had said, "The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can never end."

The reality of those words had repeatedly tried to awaken him from the deep slumber he had willingly succumbed himself to over and over again. Unlike him, she had seen the end before it had begun. But he had obstinately kept both his eyes and ears shut to all the warning signs. He had simply believed in the fantasy. He had allowed himself to relish in the honey-heavy dew of slumber and get caught up in all those foolish, quixotic pipe dreams.

It was so beautiful. It was all so very beautiful then.

Now, he could look back and mock his callow self for having concocted such puerile dreams in the past, but despite all that pretense of having seen the end now, he still foolishly kept that single note of departure with him like a charm. Or a curse perhaps. It just held three simple words of endearment that bore the finality of her tone and in turn bounded him to the memories of a lost paradise.

She left. She always leaves with nothing more than a little piece of paper behind. The first he had discarded; the second he did not have the will to let go. Did she think it chivalrous to leave with such silent farewells? Or was she simply terrified of watching how her desertion would unman him or perhaps drive him to madness? What would he have done then, if she had not left the way she did? Would he have shed his pride and begged her to stay, even when he had seen her frustration and her unhappiness and had understood the reasons for her desire to leave?

He was uncertain for how long he had sat there and simply watched her, but finally Kumiko's eyes opened and they slowly focused on him. She smiled, her lids still heavy with sleep.

"Good morning, Ichigo," she greeted, his name slipping out with such ease, almost like this was the millionth time she had woken up in his presence.

He could hear the alto in Kumiko's childlike voice. He could see the indigo in those eyes that were deeper than the color of her ebony hair.

Those years with her; what had it all meant then?

Perhaps it had no meaning after all, except to teach him the inexhaustible depth of one's regret. But still, he continued to hold her so close, continued to call out her name in nights of desperation, even when he knew there was no meaning at all.

He was falling, descending without grace and without any modicum of sanity to hold him back.

"Ah." Ichigo smiled back at her.

**

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- YL -

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	4. 1

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**_1_**

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"_He was the most adorable little boy. He would always hold on to Masaki's hand with the cutest smile on his face. He picked flowers for her from the parks and gave her the drawings that he did in school. He would always leave the last candy for her and give her the bigger half of his favorite chocolate ice cream waffle. When Masaki cooked, he would always tug at her skirt and offer to help fill the rice bowls, carry the dishes and prepare the dinner table. He was inseparable from her. Masaki was his world, his entire, entire world."_

_He sighs and his thumb flicks against his cigarette, its ashes falling on the ground between his feet._

"_I should have been there. I should have saved Masaki. I should have saved him. I should have stopped everything."_

_She does not speak. She has no words._

_And he says, "I destroyed him."_

_The whiffs of tobacco mingles with the dampness of the night, creating a pungent smell of grief she can almost taste upon her own tongue._

"_I should have been there. I knew. I felt something was wrong. I had this sick, awful feeling in my gut that told me something was wrong. I should have gone with her. I should have gone to her." He presses the hilt of his hands against the bone of his brows, his body bent like in a fervent prayer. His fingers curls into a fist. "I saw the sky was overcast. And I gave her an umbrella. And I kissed her. And I told her to have a safe trip. And," he relaxes the fist and places his palms together. "And I never saw her again. I never saw her breathing, warm and… alive again."_

_He drops the cigarette that has now burnt too close to his hand. "If I had not opened the clinic that day. If I had gone with her. If I hadn't given her the umbrella. If I had kept my powers. If I had ran to her when I felt something was off. The thousand of probabilities run through my head. Years, so many years and they still run through my head. She was my everything. She was everyone's everything, Yuzu's, Karin's, Ichigo's, and I destroyed all of that."_

_His grief, she can now taste; it is bitter, and strangely not unfamiliar, even if the grief is not hers._

"_He looks so much like his mother." The words come like tears that fall in the rain, meant to be unseen._

_And quite suddenly, she understands the familiarity of that bitterness that lingers at the back of her throat. _

_Because she has seen and heard it so many times. It is resignation to a fate that can never be changed, regret that one cannot erase and pining that will never disappear. It is the same. So many times she has seen it in her own brother and now, unexpectedly, she sees it in this man who has never shown a trace of sorrow in front of his children._

_And she knows that it pains him. Every time he sees the son he loves, he sees the woman he loves. And he will see how powerless he has been and he will allow the guilt and anger and sadness to bury him alive. All this years he has been miserable but has never admitted it to anyone._

_She exhales soundlessly, her breath condensing into clouds of white fumes in the cold air. Soon it will be a year. With the cherry blossoms all gone, it will soon be a year. "You are a good father, Kurosaki-san. You held the family together when it threatened to fall apart. You had never let go. You were always there for him, for the whole family. Ichigo knows that."_

"_But you know, there are times when I realize that I have to let go. Times when I realize that he's all grown up in a world where he no longer needs me to hold his hand. Times when I realize that I have to learn to let go." He closes his eyes, the trembling of his long lashes apparent against the shadow of the orange streetlamp. "Because he has found another hand to hold on to."_

"_Kurosaki-san…"_

"_Don't let go, Rukia."_

_She shakes her head. "I've done nothing for you to trust me. I've only placed him in harm's way and…"_

"_Ichigo," he says, "He's a sword without a sheath. A sword without a sheath is a sword that lives in fear of hurting others. You became his sheath, Rukia. When you came, you became his sheath and he changed. He changed into the man he would have surely become if Masaki had never left."_

_He turns to her, his gaze deeply sorrowful. "I've kept too many secrets, done too little, pretended for too long and made him blame himself for the sin that was mine to bear. So as awful as it is of me to ask that of you, don't let go. Because right now, there's nothing I can do to help him."_

_He looks away._ "_And Rukia, nothing terrifies a father more than the realization that he cannot do anything for his only son."_

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**_- YL -_**

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	5. IV

_It's almost six am in the morning. I really should be sleeping. But this chapter has been sitting in my computer for so long and I've been wanting to upload for so long... _

_Please enjoy. =)_

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**IV**

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He utterly regretted having swept into his heroic mode to aid an elementary student who had dropped his bag into the canal. It was in no way a difficult task, but with a careless step, he had lost his footing and slipped at the muddy bank. Now he was wet and cold and had earned himself a ghastly wound on his shin where a rock, a brick or whatever it was that he had not bothered to find out about, had slashed through his jeans. Even the profuse expressions of gratitude from the kid had done little to placate his frustration at his current situation.

In a state of suppressed agitation, Ichigo pushed the door open as quietly as he possibly could and prayed that no one who would pounce on him the second he stepped in.

His prayers were not answered. As he clicked the door back into place behind him, his father appeared flying down the stairs with his feet aiming right for his head. Ichigo swerved to the right, avoiding the kick cleanly, the attack leaving only a slight flurry of the wind in his hair and a loud crash behind him. He sighed dismally as he removed his soaked shoes and placed it on the rack.

"My good son!" His father patted him jovially on the shoulder, his overly-boisterous laugh echoing through the walls of the house. "How was the swamp that you seem to have been swimming in? Is that why you were so late?"

Ichigo rolled his eyes, certain that he was going to get a migraine if he listened to his father's voice for any longer. "I just need a change of clothes."

"Stay! Stay!" He hung an arm around Ichigo's neck. "Yuzu and Karin will be back soon. We can have supper and play charades and…"

Ichigo lugged himself forward, dragging his father along with him, while trying, with very little success, to pull off the grip the old man had on him. "I have to go back to the hospital in the morning tomorrow…"

Quite abruptly, Isshin released him and teleported himself to a squatting position in front of his injured left leg, his eyes scrutinizing the wound that was visible beneath his torn jeans. Deftly, Ichigo side-stepped him to move his leg out of his sight and continued on his way with an almost imperceptible limp, hoping that his father would not pursue the issue.

"You're not going to seek the help of the great Kurosaki-sensei?"

Ichigo waved his hand, wanting to simply dismiss the matter. "It's nothing. I can take care of it."

"You should let a professional like me take care of it!" He insisted, much to Ichigo's dismay.

Ichigo had never been much of an even-tempered person and the irritation was growing exponentially. "I said it's nothing, so just let it be."

"Come on, let Daddy take care of you!"

His temper flared at the ostensible jovial tone his father was using. He was suddenly so sick and tired of this pretense game his family had gotten so used to playing. "I said it's nothing! So stop treating me like a child!"

And what came after was unexpected. His father grabbed his shirt and slammed him into the wall, his face inches away from him. His glare was castigatory and his uncontrollably riled demeanor was something that Ichigo had not seen in a long time. Not since middle school, which was almost ten years ago. "I didn't raise you to speak to me like that, do you understand? And you may no longer be a child, but you will always be _my _child."

Ichigo said nothing, dumbfounded. His father let go of him with a light shove and stood back, the anger dissipated from his eyes and he looked almost regretful for his evidence of an all-too human emotion. "Now, change. I'll be at the clinic."

His father's brash order came together with a surprising sense of intimacy, almost like a lost kite that had flown too high in the strong winds and snapped, but was found again, fallen right at the doorstep. He was again a thirteen-year-old son, defiant, difficult and defensive, an overly angry teenager whose heart tingled with delight even when he stood there ashamed. He was actually secretly happy to be with his imperfect father, in this imperfect family.

In the bathroom, Ichigo undressed and washed the dirt away. He inspected his own wound. He thought he caught a glimpse of white bone beneath the thin layers of bleeding flesh and realized it was probably a cut much deeper than he had initially expected. But the cut was clean.

He returned to his room to clear out his jeans. Everything was wet. His phone, his wallet, his cash, his cards. Thankfully, his phone appeared to be still alive, though he had some doubts on how functional it would remain. He laid out the things from his wallet one by one, till finally he pulled out the last piece of paper from a small compartment inside his wallet. Carefully, he opened it, afraid that it might tear. He pressed the paper flat against his desk. It was soaked, but intact. And the words were still clear against the old piece of paper.

He was so relieved.

He wanted to believe that he was not a man inclined to melancholy, that he would not spend his days thinking of the things that might have been. But each year when he came back to a place he had spent most of his years in, and each school break that he spent alone in his empty apartment, and each night before he went to bed, he still found himself entangled in the if-thens, the maybes and the whys.

A photo stood at the corner of his desk, a family photo of four. Yuzu had displayed it there. It was her fervent way of keeping him in this house which he still wanted to call home. It was taken when about six, seven years ago, a time when his hair was still a crazy mess of orange spikes and his mouth was more like a crooked grimace than a smile. He picked up the frame and looked at one smiling face to another. Were they happy, really? Behind that scowl, was he in fact, actually happy?

He did not want his life to just be a fabrication of lies, half-truths and unspoken secrets.

His life; they had to be as real as this old photo framed in a ridiculous border of happy bunnies, as real as the person who stood behind the camera and pressed the shutter for them.

Those years with her; they were not just lies, half-truths and unspoken secrets. They were real.

They had to be real.

He placed the frame face-down, and finally proceeded downstairs, where his father was sitting at the clinic, patiently waiting for him with his equipments all ready. His father washed and examined the leg briefly, before he swiftly pushed in a syringe of procaine hydrochloride in the proficient motion of a doctor.

He began to put the first stitch into the numbed flesh. "This is nothing? You really think a clinically inexperienced medical student like you will be able to suture through your own leg?"

Ichigo wondered if he was still angry, and unused to a seemingly irate father, he was uncertain how he should respond. But his father was the one who carried on the conversation. "So, how're things over at college?"

"Nothing special."

"What's her name… Kumiko?"

Ichigo cringed, wondering where his father had heard about her. "There was nothing between us."

"Oh, that wasn't what I heard," he snickered, bouncing back to his original annoying self.

"Who tells you all these nonsense," Ichigo rebutted with a growl.

"Aw, you know," he drawled, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a conceited look, "people like talking to me about my son who refuses to come home. So, tell me about Kumiko."

"Pervert."

"Repeat that and I'll make sure to mess up your leg." He waved his forceps threateningly in the air.

Ichigo grunted. "I said there was nothing going on between us. She had a boyfriend."

"Ooh, tried to steal someone else's girl, didn't you?"

"I said!" Ichigo snarled, but was intercepted when Isshin pointed his forceps so near the bridge of Ichigo's nose, that his eyes crossed from staring at the equipment that appeared dangerously close to stabbing his eyes.

"Stop moving about," he commanded.

Ichigo settled back to the backrest of the bed. "That was like last year's news. And as I said, there was nothing."

"So, there's nothing between you and Hitomi as well? Or was it Mari?"

Ichigo crossed his arms defensively, wondering where his father got all these unnecessary information, which was unfortunately, quite updated.

_Tatsuki._

It was absurd that he had taken so long to see the link. The only person whom he still kept in regular contact and still stayed merely minutes away from the clinic. Of course, it was inevitable his father and Tatsuki would chat. She kept Ichigo updated about his family, and apparently, she kept his family updated about him as well. And in all the most unnecessary ways too.

"Look at my masterpiece," his father proclaimed happily as he snipped off the thread and began to finish up the work with the final treatment of his wound that was now closed. "Minimal scarring, enabling you to be the Casanova you are without scaring all the ladies away."

Ichigo groaned silently at his father's constant act of idiocy. But he knew that besides his father's constantly blabbering mouth, he truly had excellent handiwork. His father was a brilliant doctor who had worked the hectic pace of a city hospital, right up till he met Mom, got married, had him, and finally settled for something more peaceful. Ichigo sometimes wondered if his father had ever thought it to be a sacrifice.

Probably not.

Ichigo sat himself up at the edge of the bed with his legs on the foothold, and his wound still numb beneath the bandage.

Silently, he observed his father who was clearing the area with deliberate slowness. How did a son talk to his father about his slow plummet into mindless debauchery without acknowledging to the shame and guilt he had been trying to push away? Or talk about how he is acutely aware that he was too much of a coward to face the reality he had been trying to escape? And admit that he is not enough of a man to just put the past behind?

"Supper is good," his father suddenly said. "And charades. Ah, _karuta_!"

Ichigo hated that stupid card game. "It's not New Year. And you always win at _karuta_. The only one who could ever beat you at that ancient game…" His voice faltered, realizing his mistake.

"That's because you are unskilled!" His father mocked him instantly, allowing Ichigo's carelessness of speech to slip away without pursuit. He slid his phone and wallet into his pockets. "I'll go pick up the girls and get us some food."

"They're _nineteen_."

"My babies will never be old enough to walk alone in these dangerous streets!" He asserted. "YOU on the other hand," he stabbed a finger at Ichigo, "should take a walk around town to exercise those feeble legs of yours."

His father was the kind of man who talked a lot. And a lot of times, the things that he talked about were a lot less than the things he was actually saying.

Ichigo hopped off the bed, the local anesthetic on his leg making him feel a strange loss of proprioception, like he would lose his leg if he did not keep his eye on it. He tested it cautiously and found that it worked just fine. Of course it would. Even if he could not feel it, could not see it, his leg was there. And so were a lot of other things in his life, even if he tried to convince himself otherwise. "I'm going upstairs."

"You're going to grow fat if you just sit around all the time!" His father yelled, feigning displeasure when there was actually elation in his voice. "I'll be back at ten!"

His father did not need two to three hours to pick up Yuzu and Karin. He was just giving him time. To think, to vacillate, to decide.

Ichigo curled into the familiar comfort of his old bed and stared at the damp piece of memento on his desk. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and hoped to dream.

* * *

_**- YL -**_

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	6. V

_It's been a while. Pls enjoy. =)_

* * *

**V**

* * *

"Ruki-chan!"

"Kurosaki-san," she greeted the bustling man who made a full swirl before he clasped his hands around hers.

"You used to call me 'Daddy'!"

"It was years ago."

Isshin's lips curled into a scowl. "You can still call me that. You are the daughter I never had!"

She laughed. "You have two!"

He pouted impishly. "Three is even better!"

She smiled. This sort of conversation was all too familiar. Over the years, they had done this routine countless times, but somehow, it never seemed to get old.

In the shadows of the dim orange streetlamp, Rukia could see his expression softening as he paused in what appeared to be a rather fond thought. He sat himself down with his arm stretched along the length of the bench. "Ah, he came home this year."

She made no comment as she propped her sword against the bench and sat down quietly beside him. She was aware of the fact, and she was certain that Isshin knew that she was waiting naively with great anxiety. A part of her was already resigned to the belief that he would not forgive her departure and would no longer wish to see her. The past few years of waiting had not disproven her theory yet.

Neither of them spoke and Rukia remembered how Isshin's silence had an intellectual quality to it which she really liked. It was a charming sort of silence that was akin to the ebb and flow of waves, comforting and thoughtful, and it was a fine trait that had been passed on to his son. She smiled at the thought of how similar the pair of father and son was, even though they begged to differ.

"He misses you," he finally spoke, his tone quiet.

"He told you that?" She smirked at the absurdity of the possibility that Ichigo would ever admit to something so sentimental.

"He'll kill himself before telling me anything like that," he growled in disapproval. "But well, there are a few things a father always knows."

His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed. Rukia could see the shadows of his long lashes on his cheeks and the contours of his tall and narrow nose that led to a slightly surly-looking lips that was almost a little too wide for his face when he smiled. These features were one of the little things she remembered she found so endearing in Ichigo, things which he had inherited from this man, this man who had entrusted his son to her.

She looked away, wanting to hide her guilt. She had mulled over and tried to justify her reasons for leaving. They were from two different worlds, Ichigo and she. They were powerless to change the world they were born in and they were unable to merge the boundaries of the living and the dead. They had no happily-ever-after, for that illusion of a happily-ever-after would only melt into a pool of caustic acid that would burn her if she stayed.

They had so much love, but she held onto so much resentment and anger as well. She had crossed the infinitely vast space of the living and the dead, but what had she gained in the end? Only the realization that she was unwilling to sacrifice her past for a future in a world she did not belong. It was a future she had once believed lay in the palm of his hands that held her, but it was a future she no longer saw.

She failed them. She failed the people here who believed in her.

"I went away, I left him, without reason," she said. Rukia smoothed out the creased in her black kimono, brushing them repeatedly against her skin. Five years, she had sat here, waiting. Five years, she had imagined how the years would have changed him and how platonic their reunion should be like. She imagined him forgiving her obstinacy and greeting her in feigned politeness. "He won't come."

"You were terrified, Rukia."

She was staring down, surprising herself as a tear fell directly down onto her clenched left hand. For years, she made up so many excuses for leaving, but never once she wanted to acknowledge that she had been terrified. It was definitely not the only reason, but it was one of them. She was terrified of the uncertain future, of the happiness that came too easily to her. She had fought all her life and nothing had come to her so effortlessly. She was convinced - something that came so easily was bound to disappear just as easily as well. "I'm sorry."

Such adolescent infatuations; it was bound to disappear.

"Ah, look at the time," Isshin announced as he bounced out of the seat. "I've got to pick up my baby girls before some thief steals them away from me!"

He stopped to ruffle her hair and his warm palms lingered a little longer, like she was the daughter he never had, like he was the father she never had. "He'll come. Wait a little longer. I'm sure he'll come."

"It isn't right," Rukia stated quietly.

"There's nothing right or wrong, Ruki-chan," his smile was like a sigh. "He'll come," he said again, like a reassurance, before he waved and left.

She sat there in the humid air, surrounded in the smell of soil and grass that mingled with the mosaic of memories scattered throughout this town. Footsteps of their scintillating past that had become nothing more than a convolution of mistakes she should have never allowed herself to make. Yet, those three years had filled her fuller than the half century of shinigami days she had before he came into her life. Or perhaps, even more of her entire life than she could possibly remember.

Memories. They were nothing more than intangible, dubitable recollections that would not leave behind a vestige of its beauty or even evidence of its existence. They had no value to the people who did not make them. They were emotionally-laden and emotions were often like a ubiquitous fog that bleared the path ahead and allowed one to only see what was close. Memories were only the present of the past. Memories had no future.

She had already lost track of time when she heard the sound of chains dragging across the paved ground. She looked at the emaciated and pallid child, who was staring right back at her. "Hello there," she greeted.

He seemed a little startled, and then recovering quickly, he tilted his head quizzically, "Onee-san?"

"I'm Kuchiki Rukia. What's your name?" She asked as she patted the empty space beside her.

"Saito Yukio," he answered promptly and he plopped himself down by her side, with unexpected alacrity. "Onee-san, are you dead too?"

"I have been, for a long while."

Children were always the hardest for her to send off, for they were often disoriented and confused. They had barely grasped the idea of what being alive was all about and then they were already gone. They were always looking for their parents and crying and yelling. Rukia knew her job was not to comfort these children nor was it to explain to them the meaning of death, but she never had the heart to be harsh with them. Perhaps because they did not know how to grieve for their own deaths, so she wanted to grieve for them instead.

But this child understood what death was. She had seen enough of these type children to know that they must have been sick for a long time, and for some, even if they did not understand what it truly meant to die, when it happened, they would realize that it was an awaited release from their suffering.

"Papa and Mama cried a lot," Yukio said, swinging his tiny legs that did not reach the ground.

"They must have loved you very much."

Yukio nodded with certainty. "Did your Papa and Mama cry a lot too when you died?"

Rukia shrugged slightly. "I don't know. I'd never met them."

The boy's brows creased, like he felt sorry for her. Rukia smiled. "It's okay. I was just a baby. I wouldn't remember."

"Papa and Mama loved me very much. Papa stopped working and brought me here, away from the city, so that he can spend more time with me. I knew Mama was always crying, but she did not like to cry in front of me. So I tried to never cry in front of her too. I was very happy with them. I was very lucky to have them as my parents."

His overly jovial façade had fallen, but even now, this precocious child struggled not to cry. He did not speak for a very long time and then he asked abruptly, "Onee-san, why are you dressed funny?"

"When people die, sometimes they go places where they do other things to help people. And I'm here to help send you to a place where other people like you live."

"Is it heaven? Papa and Mama said that children like me go to heaven."

"I don't know if it's a place you can call heaven," she answered, "but it'll be a place where you can meet new friends and make new families. It isn't too bad a place."

"I don't need a new family," he stated resolutely.

"It's fine. You can wait for your parents there." Lies, half-truths and unspoken secrets. Her life was full of them. She did not want to explain the slim chances of them meeting again, or the years he would probably need to wait, or the possibility that he would no longer recognize them even when they do meet. There were so many uncertainties, yet holding onto false hope was easier than breaking down the reality of the truth.

"Going to that place, would it be like 'Night on the Milky Way Train'? An Onii-san who always came to the ward to visit us had read this book with me. It would be nice to have a Giovanni accompany me on a journey through the Milky Way, to meet a lot of people and see a lot of pretty things. It wouldn't be lonely then."

Rukia knew the book. It was a children's book by Miyazawa Kenji. It wrote of Giovanni and Campanella's experiences on a train that travelled across the Milky Way. On their journey, they saw violet gentians in full bloom, ran like the wind in golden sand that glistened like crystals, and awed at white herons that glided across the sky like fresh snow. And Giovanni had woken up from what seemed like a dream, to realize that Campanella had drowned the night before, and that dream, was him accompanying Campanella on his journey to death.

.

"_Campanella," Giovanni said, turning towards Campanella, "we're going to stay together, okay?"_

_But there was no Campanella. _

_..._

_Where Campanella had been sittiing,_

_there was only the black shining velvet seat._

_._

It was a story that spoke of happiness and intimacies that could not be eternal.

"Maybe Onii-san will take that train with me. Papa said I might still be able to meet him here, but I haven't. He was very nice and kind to everyone in the hospital. He would always bring us books and toys. I wanted to at least say goodbye to him…"

"Perhaps it'll be like the Milky Way Train. Maybe your Onii-san will be able to take it with you. I don't know what it's really like." This was neither a lie nor a truth. It was just another hope she wanted this child to have. To Yukio, the train would be a wonderful experience, and if it could be true, she would like him to enjoy that journey, without the anxiety and sorrow of knowing the ephemerality of joy and companionship.

"Onee-san, could I just stay here a little longer?" He asked meekly, his eyes brimming with tears. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes that were now squeezed tightly shut. "Just a few more minutes."

Rukia took his hand and grasped it firmly as he finally cried, his tears falling down his pale cheeks like rain. "Sure, Yukio-chan. Why not."

* * *

**- YL -**

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End file.
